


Dragon, Dragon

by RenderedReversed



Category: Black Panther (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Fairy Tale Elements, M/M, dragon rider au, dragon!T'Challa, half-dragon!Shuri, inspired by Dragon Rider, mercenary!Erik
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-16 15:26:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14167869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RenderedReversed/pseuds/RenderedReversed
Summary: As a mercenary-for-hire, Erik has one job: kill the dragon, rescue the princess.It gets a little more complicated when the dragon is actually the princess' brother, the princess definitely does not need rescuing, and they're maybe sorta kinda starting to grow on him.Just a little.





	Dragon, Dragon

 

Erik doesn't think it's real, at first.

A dragon guarding a princess in a tower—in this day and age? It's almost as ridiculous as that goblin extermination job two years back—only, there actually _had been_ a goblin lair, _and_ a goblin king, and a goblin _clan_ …

Fucking hell. The Guild just _has_ to route all the _weird jobs_ to him, don't they? He'll need a vacation after this, for sure.

Anything that deals with the Fae is usually more trouble than it's worth. Unfortunately, Erik really, really likes money, and trouble? All part of the job.

But there are small mercies. As mad as his client seemed, Klaue was very specific: kill the dragon, bring back the princess alive. And Erik's allowed to take as much of the dragon's horde as he can carry. It's a sweet deal, easy enough job; Erik's no stranger to hunting dragons, and this one will just be another tick to his kill count.

…Then he gets to the castle, and that's when things get _weird_.

First of all, the dragon is stronger than he expected; lither, deadlier, too. A sleek, twisting, armored creature with scales a glossy black. Its claws are the color of smoke from its flames, its eyes intelligent: calculating. When Erik leaps out of the path of its fire breath, their surroundings don't catch fire, but he can feel enough of the heat to know it'd burn him to a crisp if he were caught.

It makes all the other dragons he fought look like newborn hatchlings.

it's neither a quick nor clean fight by any definition of the word, and Erik's pretty sure one of his ribs is cracked from being slammed against a castle wall. He's just lined himself up for a blow that'll (hopefully) behead the damn thing when he hears someone shout,

" _Brother! Your left!"_

Then the dragon's tail is there, its spikes slamming into his stomach with a force that sends him flying back towards the forest. Erik cushions his fall in a bed of brambles—not his first choice, but it's better than crashing into a tree trunk.

He gets up, tightens his hold on his dual blades. Grins, even—he's going to take this fucker down even if it kills him. No one's given him this good of a fight in a long, _long_ while.

But the dragon stops.

It takes him a second to figure out why. There's a girl leaning out of the tallest window of the castle tower, one leg propped up on the sill with the other back inside. She's dressed like a warrior of the forest, and carries something in her arms.

It's pointed at him.

Erik barely manages to dodge the bolt of _electricity_ discharged from her _rifle_ —because apparently that's a thing now, princesses trapped in towers apparently all carry rifles, rifles that shoot electricity instead of bullets, rifles they point at innocent mercenaries hired to save them from the _dragon_ that's supposed to be _holding them hostage_ —the dragon they are decidedly _not_ pointing their rifle at—

Erik could've been assassinating a government official. He could've brought down a whole damn government, fucked off with a wad of cash, _zero Fae_ , and maybe even had enough time to get laid before his next assignment. Yeah, that would've been nice.

But here he is.

"Hey Princess, I think you're pointing that thing at the wrong person!"

The barrage stops—for now. Erik watches from the tree line as the girl hefts her weapon onto her shoulder, climbs entirely out the window, and jumps. She lands on the dragon's crest—or more like, the dragon moves to catch her—and swings herself down to hang half-hidden on one of its neck spikes.

"So says the intruder," the girl says, scanning the trees for him. She won't find him; Erik's not an amateur.

The dragon, on the other hand…

For a moment, they lock eyes. The dragon's eyes are as gold as the horde it doubtlessly guards, with a single black slit running down the center. It follows him effortlessly, gazing straight through the foliage like a bloodhound scenting prey.

" _Shuri_ ," the dragon rumbles.

The girl's reaction is instantaneous. She swivels, weapon ready, and the blast narrowly misses his head.

"Y'ain't playin' around, are you, Princess?"

"If it's our heads that you want, we'll be taking yours instead!"

The next blast shatters the tree behind him. Erik moves to a new shield.

"There's only one head that I came here to take, and that ain't yours!"

It's perhaps a little pointless to explain—he's clearly been given the wrong information. The dragon isn't holding her hostage; they're working together. To what ends, Erik doesn't know, but he's starting to see why the whole _rescue the princess_ schtick is a little outdated, and it's not just because of the feminist movement.

Another blast decimates the tree right next to him.

"If you want to kill my brother, you'll have to go through me first!"

Brother? There's a prince there, too? That _definitely_ didn't make it into the job briefing. Erik's going to file a nasty complaint for this one.

"I ain't talking about your brother—I mean your pet dragon!"

The fire—stops.

Erik doesn't chance it. He keeps his guard up, waits to hear—anything, any movement, any rustle, the most minor, insignificant sound that could give them away. But nothing happens.

And then the princess says, "What are you talking about? He is my brother!"

"Really," Erik shouts back, "'cause that's some real weak family resemblance you've got going on there."

"I think I would know who my own brother is, thank you very much!" she snaps. "How about you? Are _you_ sure that you have the right castle?"

"You Princess Shuri?"

There's a pause.

Finally, she says, "That is my name, yes."

"Then unless there's another Princess Shuri in a 30-mile radius, yeah—this my castle, alright."

Shuri doesn't reply to that. After a few more moments, Erik chances a look back towards the castle. They're still there, she and the dragon—her _brother_ , if she's to be believed—right where he left them. Her rifle's down. He could run. Better yet, he could attack—take one down, grab the weapon, the other shouldn't be too hard alone.

The dragon snorts. A small puff of smoke exits its nostrils, followed by some sort of rumbling noise that, if he sort of squints, kind of sounds like—oh.

It's…laughing.

" _I believe_ ," the dragon says, " _that there has been a serious misunderstanding._ "

Which. Is a fair conclusion to make, Erik supposes.

" _Lay down your weapons. We rest ours. Then, we can talk."_

"Considering the fact that you're _a dragon_ , I don't think that's quite fair."

The dragon rumbles again. " _I am what I am. But if it makes you uncomfortable, perhaps_ this _form will do_."

Shuri jumps off. A soft glow encompasses the dragon's form, shifts, shrinks, and then—

A man is standing in its place.

The man brushes off his robes. "Unless you are uninterested," he says, "Then in that case, we would appreciate you leave and not return."

His voice makes Erik tighten his grip on his blades. There is something distinctly inhuman about him; the way he carries himself too graceful, too otherworldly for a mere mortal. His robes float about him without wind nor breeze, and even from afar, the fabric looks unnatural—soft, pale, and glowing not unlike the moon. He looks _divine_.

Fae.

Erik realizes, rather foolishly, he _is_ interested—maybe even a little _too_ interested.

He lowers his weapons and steps out. The man doesn't seem surprised, though Shuri's head snaps in his direction.

"Well I'll be," Erik says. "There is some family resemblance after all."

Shuri narrows her eyes. She darts behind her brother's back and only peeks around enough to glare at him. Erik can tell—she's probably clinging to her brother's robes behind his back.

"I _did_ say so," she says.

Her brother half-smiles. "Don't sulk, Shuri."

"He is a slippery brute—like an eel, only worse, because I would not eat him if you paid me to do it." She pauses. "Too gamey, this one."

Erik's mouth twitches. Up close, Shuri's even younger than he thought she was—got a quick tongue, too. She sends the smallest glance to her brother and the sight makes something inside Erik's chest squeeze.

She looks at her brother like he hung the stars in the sky. God, what the hell—the only thing stopping him from marching right back to the Guild and gutting Klaue is that his orders were to bring her back _alive_. Erik doesn't have many limits; women, children, he'll kill 'em if he has to, but taking a job _expressly_ for a child's head is too low, even for him.

Her brother is watching him.

Erik refocuses, cocking his head to the side. "You got a name, dragon boy?"

"Prince T'Challa, son of King T'Chaka," he answers. "And you?"

For a moment, Erik considers giving his mercenary name. But he'd be in a bad spot if they recognized him off of that and tried to kill him, so instead, he says, "You can call me Erik."

"Erik," T'Challa says slowly, testing the syllables nearly as close to how he said it. It's not exact—there's the slightest ring of an accent there, an accent that Erik can't identify—but it's close. Dangerous. A Fae's voice.

Shuri wrinkles her nose at him.

T'Challa says, "Come, Erik, let us discuss inside."

* * *

The inside of the castle is…quaint. All its grandiose decorations and banners have long been eroded away with time, and though the halls are clean and clearly lived in, the castle itself is in disrepair. Princess Shuri and her brother were not its first residents, and only time would tell if they would be its last.

"So you were hired to…rescue…my sister. From me."

It's not exactly what Erik said, but it's certainly what he _implied_. He leans back in his seat and shrugs. "I do the job, get paid. It's not in my interests to ask questions."

T'Challa turns to Shuri. "A misguided intention, perhaps?"

Shuri crosses her arms. "To what end? I refuse to marry a human prince—especially one who doesn't have the guts to show up himself. Hiring a mercenary? Really?"

Erik doesn't think Klaue is any sort of prince, but he stays quiet. They can think what they want.

T'Challa, on the other hand, looks vaguely disturbed. " _Marry_? Where did you come up with that idea?"

"It's how all human fairytales go, brother. The knight saves the princess from a dragon, and then they get married and live happily ever after. One might think I read more than you."

"That's barbaric. Why would a dragon hold a princess hostage?"

Erik shrugs. "You tell me."

T'Challa still looks somewhat upset, but he waves the issue away. "In any case, as you can see, Shuri is not being held against her will here—"

"—And my brother isn't holding any other princesses hostage, either. He'd be terrible at it. All she'd have to do is look at him, maybe aim a sword at his throat, and he'd freeze."

T'Challa shoots her a sharp look. "I do not _freeze_."

Shuri doesn't look impressed. "You are weak to a pretty face—if I wasn't here watching your back, you'd be long gone, brother."

"Cute," Erik remarks. "Why you guys here in the first place? Figure royalty could find a better place than this."

The siblings share a look.

Eventually, T'Challa says, "We are searching for our homeland."

"What? You lost or something?"

"'Or something,'" Shuri mutters. In a louder voice, she says, "We were separated from our tribe during a great disaster. We've traveled around, trying to figure out where to go, but…"

"The world is growing smaller and smaller. There are not many places left where a dragon can live—never mind two," T'Challa finishes. "We settled in this place a few years back, with nowhere else to go. We tried collecting information from the nearby villages, but needless to say, we have found none. Our homeland is either too well-hidden, or it too has been exterminated."

Erik thinks back to the dragons he's killed. Crazed, wrathful beasts of violence and possession—a _good riddance_ sort of job, putting an end to a treacherous era long past, kill by kill. They were nothing like _this_ —intelligent enough to hold a conversation, capable of reasoning and emoting. And certainly, none of them had ever taken the form of a _human_ before.

Exterminated, huh. It's possible.

"Well, haven't heard of any dragon strongholds around here," he says.

T'Challa nods wearily. "I thought not. But thank you; even a lack of information can be a clue in and of itself."

Shuri is not so diplomatic. She fiddles with a loose thread on her sleeve, expression scrunched in consternation. "It doesn't make sense," she says, "Where _are they_? Surely they can't have all been— _Baba_ isn't weak, and he was with Okoye, too—"

 T'Challa places a hand on her shoulder and shakes his head. Shuri sighs, twisting the thread around her finger and yanking it out forcibly. There's an audible snap.

"I am sorry for your job," he says, turning to Erik again. "It must have been a long journey. I am aware how secluded this castle is—we did choose it for that reason. I insist you stay the night and depart in the morning."

For a moment, Erik says nothing. Then, he inclines his head and says, "If you're offering."

T'Challa nods. "I am."

And that's that.

* * *

Dinner is an odd affair. T'Challa remains in his human form, and they dine on a humble meal of vegetables, wild rice, and local game. Erik's not keen on eating Fae food, but he recognizes the ingredients from on his way here.

It's surprisingly good.

Shuri is still somewhat wary of him, eyeing him like he might draw her brother into another bout if she looks away, but T'Challa doesn't share the same concerns. He freely engages Erik in conversation, even offers him a glass of wine at the end of their meal.

Shuri purses her lips and bids them goodnight. She disappears up the tower, the only evidence to her true blood the grace and silence at which she moves—skills other humans spend years developing, all natural to her.

But she's still young yet; instinct can't compensate for experience. She'd caught him off guard earlier with her strange weapon and kept her distance while staying in the shadow of her much stronger brother for the entire duration of their scuffle. She knows that _he knows_ that she's not a fighter. While a potential wild card, Shuri isn't a threat to him.

T'Challa, on the other hand.

Even in human form, he permeates danger. Didn't leave any openings, either, throughout dinner. And now, ensconced in the moonlight spilling in from the open window, a wine glass in one hand and the other held behind his back, his otherworldly aura only strengthens.

Erik's hand twitches for his weapon. It'd be a good fight, he knows.

But instead of succumbing to the urge and ravaging the old study room, Erik refrains and sprawls out on one of the room's chaises, another glass in his own hand.

"So," he says, "got a lot to do around here? Or do you just sit around drinking wine all day, reading—those."

T'Challa turns away from the window. He has brown eyes as a human, but for a moment, Erik swears they glow gold.

"It is good wine," T'Challa says. There's a smile at the corner of his mouth.

Erik agrees. It _is_ good wine.

"Are all dragons into this? Or just you?"

T'Challa takes a step forward. For a second, Erik thinks he's going to do something, but T'Challa circumvents him entirely and moves to lean against the back of the chaise instead.

Prude, or predator? Erik wonders if he'll find out by the end of the night.

"'This'?" T'Challa asks.

Erik grins. "Eyein' up humans. You ain't fooling no one—pretty sure your sis was giving you the side eye back there."

T'Challa doesn't look remotely ashamed at being called out. "That was not because you are human—that was because you tried to kill me. Shuri, of all people, is not one to judge the former, regardless; she is half-blooded, a half-dragon."

"You ain't?"

"No. My mother was draconian; hers was not."

"Fascinating," Erik says, still eyeing the smile at the corner of T'Challa's mouth. Dragon dick is probably someone's kink, in retrospect. "All dragons turn into humans?"

"We do not change what we are, only our forms. We adapted—" T'Challa pauses; his gaze lingers on Erik's jaw, traces it down his neck to his collarbone, "—but I am still very much a dragon. You can tell, can you not?"

"Fae," Erik agrees. "You reek of it."

The smile flickers. "A very human term. The true Fae have long left this world, driven away by your cities of iron and steel. And then you turned your eyes to us—hunting us, raiding our sanctuaries, until all we have left now is our final haven—our homeland."

Erik watches as the dragon's eyes slide to his dual blades, left on the floor beside him.

"You gon' kill me?"

T'Challa—

—shakes his head.

"No," he says, "You are not to blame, nor is humanity. We were arrogant as well, thinking we could hide in our caves and outlast you. We relied on our technology, grew stagnant, lost our prudence—and when invaders came to take our lands, we, the entirety of the Moon Clan, were powerless to stop them. It is not your fault. Your death would mean nothing to my people."

T'Challa looks over to the window. After a moment, Erik follows his gaze.

"I fear I have been a poor host. Allow me to lead you to your rooms and let you rest. You must be tired—and we have not treated your wounds, either. An oversight; my apologies."

Erik downs the rest of his wine and makes to stand. "Bruises," he mutters.

T'Challa pushes him back into the seat with a gentle, firm hand. It's the first time they've touched. His skin is warm, callused—

 _Strong_.

"Sit," T'Challa says, "Your ribs will not appreciate you moving."

"I've had worse," Erik says, but he sits—if only because he's curious.

From one of the shelves, T'Challa pulls down a mortar and pestle. He takes something out of his robe's pocket—puts it into the mortar too fast to see exactly what it is; Erik catches a glint not unlike a crystal—and then begins to crush it with the pestle. It crunches easily like shards of glass.

When he's satisfied with the fineness of the powder, T'Challa pulls out a flask containing a pale, shimmering liquid. It's slightly more viscous than water, but only just, and he pours a small amount into the mortar, mixing it well with the powder.

"Here," he says, "It is the medicine of my people. I swear on the Moon it will not harm you."

There's some significance to that. Erik licks his lips. He can feel the spark of power in the air; it gives him goosebumps all over his arms, pumps his blood with adrenaline.

Moonlight casts its glow upon the bowl. It smells fresh, like clean air and mountain wind, and it goes down just as easy as well.

Erik didn't know he was so _thirsty_. He drinks like a man possessed until the medicine is all gone.

"Easy," T'Challa says, "Steady. You adapt well to it; that is good."

"What was that?" Erik asks, panting. He wipes his lips with his sleeve.

"It is as I said—medicine. Moon-dew infused with dragon crystal. It will heal you, but its potency relies on your compatibility with my power."

He can feel it, too; it's fast-acting, makes him feel revitalized and refreshed. When Erik twists his torso, there's still a twinge of pain, but it's quickly fading—nothing like how it felt before.

"A good night's rest will allow you to make a full recovery. It is just. You stilled your hand when you realized the job you came here for was not so. You bear no grudge against my sister for attacking you. It would be cruel to let you suffer for wounds I inflicted—wounds I am able to heal. Consider the circumstances of our meeting cleared."

Erik stares. T'Challa is not quite smiling, but his gaze is kind. The slope of his shoulders is not so tense anymore. He extends his hand, waiting.

Erik takes it, lets himself be helped up even though he can stand just fine.

T'Challa's hand is still warm.

"Let me take you to your room," he says.

Erik is silent the entire walk, considering. The castle is on the smaller side, and now that he's taking a tour inside, he realizes that whole sections are inaccessible due to crumbling infrastructure.

They really weren't kidding—he can't imagine anyone choosing to stay here unless they truly had nowhere else to go.

Erik finds himself staring at the back of T'Challa's robes. The top is form-fitting, and tapers near the waist into a more free-flowing dress. It accentuates the supple curve to his lower back perfectly—shoulders, arms, waist, _ass_.

He knows the stories. Fae—true Fae—are beautiful. They enchant humans, lure them to their deaths with a voice, a glance, a gesture—anything. Humans are their prey, and they've had a good millennia's head start to evolve into nature's apex predator.

But those are just stories.

T'Challa stops in front of his room, opens the door for him like a gentleman. They briefly meet eyes as Erik enters. Brown, soft, round, human—gold, reptilian, half-lidded, dragon.

"Good night, Erik," T'Challa says. He makes to turn away.

Erik stops him.

"You need to recover," T'Challa says, taking a step back. His eyes, however, trace Erik's form.

Who's _he_ kidding? Erik grins, fully acknowledging the attention and basking in it. He shifts his posture, knows he's showing off, but T'Challa takes the bait anyway and follows with his eyes.

Erik would rather he use his hands.

"A good night's rest—was that the doctor's orders?"

"Strongly suggested, yes."

Erik cocks his head, gestures with his chin. "Well then, why don't you come on in and give me somethin' to dream about?"

T'Challa doesn't need to be asked twice.

* * *

Continuing the trend of a gracious host, T'Challa insists Erik stays for breakfast.

Shuri clearly isn't expecting him. She floats down the stairs, hands stretching above her head and yawning. Even sleepy, she's still light on her feet—most definitely a Fae thing.

"Good morning, brother," she mumbles, and starts to rub the sleep from her eyes.

T'Challa greets her with all the fondness an elder brother _could_ have for his younger sister. "Good morning, Shuri."

It takes until she's nearly seated at the table for her to open her eyes and see him.

"What are _you_ still doing here?!" she exclaims, pointing.

"Morning, Princess," Erik drawls. He shoots her a toothy grin and helps himself to the rabbit T'Challa had risen with the sun to hunt. It had been a very good night, and a very good lay. Whether he ever actually got that good night's rest, though, is up for debate.

He figures _pleasantly sore_ means he's recovered enough.

Shuri makes a sound at the back of her throat and immediately turns to her brother. T'Challa shrugs.

"I can't believe this," she mutters. Her plate of food goes untouched to rest her head in her hands.

Kids are so dramatic. Erik's been away from home for so long that he'd almost forgotten. "Oh, you better believe it, Princess," he can't help but add, "considering your brother over here hired me to help you guys out."

"…You did _what_?"

T'Challa appears unperturbed by her outburst. "I told Erik the riddle—where our homeland is supposed to be. 'Upon the highest peak on Earth, the entrance lies where the Heart-Shaped Herb grows.' And he said—"

"Don't know what that other stuff's about, but the 'highest peak on Earth'? That's definitely Mount Bashenga."

Shuri frowns. "But our maps—"

"Are five hundred years old," Erik says. "The maps back then? Not particularly accurate."

Shuri turns to T'Challa. "Why are our maps five hundred years old?"

T'Challa shrugs again. "It was what I was given as tribute. I figured humans would value more accurate maps—it appears that I was wrong."

Erik _could_ go into heirlooms and the importance of preserving ancient artifacts, _like maps_ , but instead he says, "I can take you to Mount Bashenga no problem. The rest? Up to you to figure out."

"It is better than nothing—perhaps the others left us a clue there to follow. If you are willing to go, then—"

Shuri immediately jumps up. "Of course I'm willing! A chance is better than wandering aimlessly! When do we leave?"

"Breakfast, then packing," T'Challa says firmly.

It's almost comical how quickly Shuri sits back down and begins scarfing her food. Erik can't help but tease her a little.

"Didn't know you were so excited to spend time with me, Princess," he says.

Shuri stops. She jabs her fork in his direction, opens her mouth, but ultimately? Says nothing.

"You are helping us," she admits begrudgingly. "Thank you. I do not like you, but my brother finds your face tolerable, so I suppose I will manage."

T'Challa chokes.

Erik grins. "Yeah, I suppose you will."

**Author's Note:**

> I have desecrated one of my favorite children's books with impure thoughts.
> 
> Nothing is sacred. _Nothing_.


End file.
